The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
by Hoodoo
Summary: The holiday season is upon the team, and it's more 'bah humbug' than sugar plums and stringing colored lights. Can the guys find some Christmas spirit?
1. Face

Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. Just a little holiday spirit that snuck up on me, six months late (or early, if you're a "glass-half-full" kind of person).

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Holidays sucked.<p>

That was all there was to it. Murdock was the only one who complained about it out loud and often, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement near the major holiday season that everyone else got prickly too.

Not that they showed it too much. No tearful hug-a-thons, no heartfelt swearing about the commercialism of the season, just lots of quiet time and drinking. Lots of drinking and getting on each other's nerves. There was the time the only show on TV was that _Home Alone_ movie, which did make one or three of them weepy, but watery eyes were brusquely blamed on a dusty room and cigar smoke.

Living out of a duffel bag did that to people. Sure, Face was able to scare up real accommodations, not hotel rooms—near the holidays, high-class housing was pretty easy to be had, what with rich folks going to exotic locales for winter breaks and all—but it still wasn't the same as home.

It wasn't the same as being where you wanted to be.

This year Face was able to get them a two bedroom townhouse. Not the usual superior lodging he could usually pull off, but adequate. He traipsed off by himself to the local club regularly, and one time had to be hunted down by the rest of them for not checking in.

"Thath's Hannibal'ths rule, not mine!"

Face slurred his esses when drunk. He also went boneless, which made it more difficult for B.A. and Murdock to keep him on his feet. The former CO wisely clamped his mouth shut on his cigar, knowing it was useless arguing with a drunk.

Once back to their temporary accommodations, they lugged him up the stairs and dumped him unceremoniously, stomach down, on his bed.

"He'll be all right in the morning," Hannibal predicted.

B.A. shook his head. Fool. He'd never understand the allure alcohol had to anyone. It made you an idiot and the resulting headaches the next day made it even less appealing.

Murdock sat down on the bed next to his friend.

"I'll take care of him, boss."

"Have at it."

B.A. shrugged and left the room after Hannibal. He flipped the light switch off as he went.

Murdock braced himself, shoved his arms under his friend, and rolled Face onto his back. Face opened his eyes a slit.

"Why'ths the room spinning? Thith some kind of funhouse?"

"Why? Are you having fun?"

Even smashed, Face giggled at the joke, although Murdock wasn't positive he got the reference. He stood again, and went to the end of the bed to untie Face's shoes.

"Come on, Faceman, let's get you outta those clothes."

"Ooo baby. Be gentle, it'ths my first time."

"No it's not," Murdock grunted as he tugged the shoes off without loosening them sufficiently.

"Yer right. Yer always right!"

"Unbuckle your belt," he instructed.

Murdock waited as Face attempted to work the complex system of a leather belt. After an agonizing moment, he gently pulled the conman's uncooperative fingers away and unfastened the buckle, then the button fly himself. With encouragement, Face lifted his hips and allowed his friend to tug his jeans off.

Because he knew the next morning Face would care, Murdock folded them before putting them on the dresser.

Turning back, the pilot said, "Shirt next. Come on, I'll help."

Face obligingly sat up and lifted his arms above his head. Murdock carefully pulled the long-sleeved tee up and off. It was folded carefully as well, and joined the pants. Face flopped back on the bed.

"Thankths, buddy. Yer the best."

Murdock nodded. "Get some sleep."

He grabbed the doorknob, but before he could open the door, Face said,

"Wait! Murdock . . ."

He paused. When nothing more was forthcoming, he turned back.

Through his drunken haze, Face looked forlorn. Murdock didn't think it was the same fake vulnerability his friend used occasionally on his marks.

"Murdock . . ."

When once again he didn't complete a sentence, Murdock went back to the bed and sat down.

". . . I'm cold?" Face finally said, as if that one verb would convey more than typical. "And . . . would you stay here?"

Murdock smiled, although the plaintiveness in his friend's voice made it a ghost of his normal grin. How many times had Face stayed the night and brought him back down after he'd had an episode? It was the least he could do. "Sure, Faceman. You're cold because you're only wearing briefs and you're not under the blankets. Move over."

Face scooted until Murdock could get him under the blankets, then stayed against the wall so the pilot could have at least half of the twin bed. Once they were settled, they lay quietly.

"Thankths," Face slurred again.

Murdock nodded.

"Chrithsmas blowths," he continued. His breath smelled like beer.

Murdock didn't answer.

"Normally I don't care. What kinda Chrithsmas did I ever have, anyway?" Face went on. He seemed to grow more agitated. "Moved from fothster to fothster—nobody cared about me, so what do I care about them?"

"Shh, it's okay," Murdock told him, putting an arm over him to keep him in place. Murdock could feel the agitation giving him energy, and didn't want him to sit up.

"Nobody cared," Face repeated, slumping back as Murdock's hold tightened. "But then tanight . . . seein' everybody there at that sthupid bar . . . and knowin' that they were gonna go home and have a good Chrithsmas . . . it just blowths!"

"I know, Facey, I know."

The two fell quiet again.

"I'm just thsad."

The despondent pitch in his last three words made Murdock pull Face closer for a real hug. Face didn't protest and relaxed against him.

"I'm sorry, Face," he told him honestly. "I wish it was different."

He did, too. Murdock liked Christmas, liked the_ idea_ of Christmas, but didn't have great memories of the holiday either. There were some earlier bright recollections of Christmas when he was young, but they were so long ago and so generic he couldn't be positive they weren't just memories of Christmases he'd seen on TV. The Christmases at the VA hospitals were more recent but he still viewed them through a blurred, drug-clouded lens. Being surrounded by crazy people. _That'll_ make your holidays depressing.

He didn't tell that to Face, though.

But since being on this team, being with these guys who watched his back and knew and trusted him to have theirs . . . Murdock wished he could make Face understand that they were family, that these Christmases were great. The bomb. No, they didn't go all out and get a tree and put up lights and open a bunch of presents early early on Christmas morning—that would be gay, and Murdock didn't mean anything derogatory to actual gay men—and okay, yes, they still had to lay low due to being wanted criminals and all, but they were together and that was what Christmas was all about, right? Being with people you cared about?

"Gay men—what?" Face asked, puzzled. His tone gave the impression it wasn't just a fuzzy brain that made him not understand.

Murdock clucked his tongue to himself in the dark. Sometimes his stream-of-consciousness thoughts made their way out verbally.

"I wish things were different, but I'm glad we're together for Christmas," he summarized simply.

Face nodded sleepily. "Yeah," he replied, although there was still enough wistfulness in his voice to tell Murdock he hadn't brought his friend out of his funk completely.

"Go to sleep, Facey."

Face nodded again, and drifted off.


	2. Hannibal

Murdock watched Hannibal secretly from the doorway.

"Something I can help you with, Captain?"

Not as secretly as he thought. "Nope!" he replied brightly. "Just making sure you're okay!"

Hannibal peered over the tops of his reading glasses at him. "And is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

You mean besides the fact you're been staring at that same page for at least 10 minutes, chugging instead of sipping brandy-never mind that it's midmorning and brandy tends to be an after dinner drink, and you keep chewing your smoke like you want to bite it in half? Murdock thought to himself. Those aren't reasons, but they sure as hell show you've got a lot going on in your head . . .

Murdock shrugged. "Guess not. Facey's nursing his headache and since I was getting him his aspirin, I wondered if you needed anything."

The older man continued to stare at him a moment, as if he could bore into the inner workings of Murdock's mind. Murdock stifled a giggle; not even trained psychiatric docs could do that easily. Then again, if anyone could do it, it may just be the man sitting in the recliner before him. The thought sobered him, and he made a conscious effort to think happy things, in case Hannibal suddenly became telepathic like that creepy little kid from the Twilight Zone—

"—you anyway."

Oops. He had blanked out. At least he didn't start talking out loud again. He wasn't sure if even a sober Hannibal could puzzle out the knotted strings in his brain—

"Murdock?"

Oops again.

"What?" he answered, trying to bring back an upbeat note back to his voice.

"Are you okay, son?" Hannibal asked, marking his place in the book with a finger.

"No. I mean, yes! Yes, I'm fine. I meant no, don't get up, not no, I'm not okay. You know. Everything's peachy in Murdockevania. Just checking up on my buds. That's all."

"Did Face say something to you last night?"

Damn it, Hannibal _was_ telepathic!

Suddenly he was Scottish. "Nae! Well, aye, but he was pissed up, weren't he? Poor lad, all outta his head wi' the bellywashers!"

Hannibal's voice held a hint of warning. "Captain . . ."

And he was back. "He was drunk, sir. He went on about hating Christmas and stuff." He shrugged to demonstrate it wasn't anything to fret about.

Apparently he was a good shrugger, because Hannibal sighed and opened his book again. "Okay, Murdock."

"Any requests for dinner?"

Hannibal shook his head as if lost in his book again. But as Murdock left the room and glanced over his shoulder, his boss was still staring down at the same page he had been from the beginning. And still gnawing his cigar.


	3. BA

B.A. was always easy to find. If there was a boxing match or football on the TV, he'd be parked in front of it. If not, because those two sports weren't typically shown at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday morning, he was in the garage under the townhouse.

Offhandedly, Murdock wondered what the actual owners of these places thought when they came home from wherever and found all their mechanical devices repaired. The black man routinely went through anything that was broken, and did his best to fix them up. He said it was just a common courtesy, an unexpected thank you to the owners. Murdock wondered if there was anything else behind it.

"What you want, fool?"

He had learned not to try and sneak up on B.A.; sometimes the black man swung without looking.

"Hey, Bosco. Whatcha doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doin'? Tryin' ta get this mower back ta snuff."

Murdock watched him in silent approval.

"Never tried fixin' an electric mower before," B.A. supplied, grunting as his wrench slipped off the nut he was working on.

"Huh."

"Seems pretty useless ta me. Prob'ly have better results from a damn goat."

Since 'huh' didn't seem like an appropriate response but the moment begged for something verbal, Murdock said, "Goats are tasty."

B.A. gave up on the nut for a moment and pointed the wrench at the pilot. "Don't you even think about tryin' to cook a goat for Christmas, fool! I ate enough of that over in Iraq!"

Murdock hadn't thought of a goat dinner, but now that B.A. mentioned it . . . but he had also put his foot down against it . . . Murdock gave a shrug and a nod to show he wouldn't.

B.A. watched him suspiciously.

"Why are you buggin' me?"

He shrugged again. "Just wandered down here to see how you're doing."

"Doin'? With this damn mower?"

"No . . . how you were doing . . ." Murdock gave a wild wave of his hand to fill in the blank. They were men after all, and a hand wave should indicate all the sappy, womanish emotional stuff they weren't supposed to talk about. That was what B.A. had told him before, forcefully. "You know."

"You are a crazy, crazy fool," B.A. told him solemnly.

"So . . . everything's cool?"

B.A. stared at him.

"No bad feelings? No melancholy and gloom? It's Christmas, and sometimes people are visited by three spirits—"

"Would you get outta here?" B.A. shouted. "Leave me alone, fool! I oughtta bust your fool head—"

Murdock skipped away, happy that at least one of them wasn't affected by the glum vibe the season seemed to dump over the group.


	4. UPS man?

It wasn't many more days before Christmas. The day before Murdock spent mostly in the kitchen. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to stuff lobsters inside a turkey, but if the turducken people could do it, he imagined giant bugs would fit in there too. An odd commotion of people getting up quickly from the furniture and the TV being shut off in the living room caught his attention. He heard:

"What do you think, boss?"

"B.A., go check the back," Hannibal's gravelly voice ordered. "Face, get upstairs and get a better vantage point. Don't be seen!"

Murdock ambled out of the kitchen as B.A. brushed passed him to the back door. Face was bounding up the stairs.

"What's happening?"

"Contact front," Hannibal growled, indicating through a sheer curtain to the driveway outside.

Murdock resisted the urge to peek out the window; he knew Hannibal wouldn't take kindly to him moving the curtain. He could, however, make out the dark brown truck idling in the driveway.

"It's the UPS man," he said.

"Is it?" Hannibal replied sarcastically.

B.A. returned. "No sign of anything, Colonel. The snow's unbroken and I didn't see any evidence of breath condensation."

Hannibal chewed on his cigar fretfully. "Face. Anything?" he called quietly to the upper floor.

"Nada, bossman. The guy's in his truck, just sitting there. No indication of other vehicles or accomplices."

"Keep looking. B.A., get us equipped. I want weapons hot."

Without question, the big black man hurried up the stairs.

"This place had its mail held, didn't it, Face?"

"Yeah. The folks are gone for the month. The rental agreement stipulated we weren't to get any mail delivery."

Hannibal continued chewing his cigar, but Murdock could tell it was out of anticipation and thrill. He didn't say anything more until B.A. was back. The older man took his shoulder holsters and shrugged them on. Murdock took the offered sidearm and its holster too, slipping it over his belt by habit.

"Face is set up with a rifle too, Colonel," B.A. told him.

"Good." Now that the holsters were comfortable, Hannibal took one handgun and cocked it. B.A. did the same, but Murdock left his where it was.

"Boss—we've got movement!" Face called from up above.

Everyone's attention snapped back to the front of the house. Although it was blurry, they could see the van's driver leave his vehicle and start towards the door. He carried a medium-sized package.

"Face, keep a bead on him. Murdock, B.A.—"

With his left hand, Hannibal designated their positions against the inner wall, out of line from the window and front door. They followed the order without pause. Hannibal took a spot against the outer wall beside the front door, and waited with his weapon ready.

Everything dwindled down to this one, tense moment. They heard the man's boots on the steps, heard the squeak of snow under his feet, and then the creaking of the boards of the stoop as he came to the front door.

Murdock took his eyes from the door and found Hannibal's, who jerked his head upward and made a quick slicing motion across his throat. It meant the shot angle was too acute for Face to compensate for, and his fellow Ranger wouldn't have his sights on their unexpected visitor any longer. Automatically, Murdock flicked the snap open on his weapon's holster, although he still didn't draw it.

A very faint scuffling noise and a grunt drifted through the door. Hannibal stiffened. They heard the unmistakable sound of something hitting the landing, and then the man's footsteps retreated. Through the sheer curtain Murdock could see him get back into his van. He sat there a moment longer, then did a three-point turn out of the driveway and was gone down the road.

B.A. let his breath out in a rush.

"Keep an eye out," Hannibal ordered up to Face as he uncocked his gun and slipped it back in its holster.

"Did he leave the box?" Murdock asked. "Face, did he leave the box?"

"He didn't carry it back to the van," Face answered.

B.A. skirted the window until he was on the other side of it, looking through the small slit between the window and curtain. "The box is in front of the door."

"What's in the box—" Murdock started, but Hannibal overrode his question.

"I don't like it. No one is supposed to be here. The mail's been stopped. Why is there package delivery?"

No one could answer him, and the room's tension, which had dissipated somewhat after the man left, took a slight upswing again.

"We'll keep watch," Hannibal decided. "No one goes outside, no one goes near a window. Understood?"

Everyone, including Face upstairs, agreed.


	5. Face, BA, Murdock, Hannibal

Anxiety continued to run high the rest of the evening. Murdock didn't like rifles, and he certainly didn't like having to sit by an upstairs window watching for anything suspicious _out there—_he thought of it in italics, which made it more ominous and therefore something to hold his attention better—but Hannibal didn't let Face take his shift. Murdock wouldn't have let his friend pull an extra either, but it was nice he offered.

When morning rolled around and everyone had had at least some sleep, coffee and breakfast perked them up.

"No sign of anything," B.A. announced as he joined the rest of them. Hannibal conceded to relax on the constant vigilance for now. "Not even Santa Claus."

"I don't know about that," Murdock replied with a smug grin as he passed coffee over to Face.

"Hmph," B.A. responded, not wanting to play into any crazy little game that might be developing in the pilot's head.

"Surprise!" he exclaimed anyway.

"What surprise?" Face asked blearily, eyeing his mug. "This isn't that civet crap coffee again, is it?"

"Better than that!"

Without an explanation, Murdock left the room.

"If him leavin' while we eat breakfast is the surprise, it_ is _a pretty good one," B.A. granted.

But his guess was incorrect. In only a few moments, Murdock returned, carrying the cardboard box that had been left on the doorstep the day before.

"Whoa—buddy—!" Face exclaimed.

"Oh, you have got to be jokin'—"

Hannibal was on his feet immediately. "Captain Murdock! What, exactly, is that box doing in this house? Didn't I give _specific_ instructions—"

Murdock set the package on the table, between Face and B.A., scooting their dishes out of the way as he did so. Although the box still had its packing tape intact, the corners of the cardboard were crumpled and torn. Part of it was crushed. It looked like it had been trampled on. The shipping label, Face read upside down, was addressed to Hannah Belle Smith, and there was no return address listed.

Murdock grinned down at the thing like it was the Ark of the Covenant, even as Hannibal continued,

"—_not to leave the premises?_ This kind of idiotic stunt is what—"

Face found he could press Hannibal's lectures to someone else to the back of his mind, just like he did when the older man was giving him a dressing-down. The excited expression on Murdock's face was much more enjoyable.

"What do you think is in it?"

"Only one way to find out—"

"Gentlemen!" Hannibal barked, his voice dropping dangerously.

Both Murdock and Face jumped. Even B.A., who had also taken an interest, sat back as if he wasn't part of this scene.

Now that he had their attention, Hannibal's eyes bore into Murdock's and he addressed him directly. "Murdock, I thought I made myself crystal clear yesterday. No one was to leave this house!"

Military training sometimes overrode the voices in his head. Murdock answered with a clipped tone. "I understand, sir. I did not leave this house, sir."

"Excuse me? If you didn't leave, how in the hell did this box get in here?"

"I pulled it in through the dog door, sir."

Face snorted involuntarily and tried to cover it with a coughing fit. Even B.A. bit his lip in an effort not to laugh. Hannibal took a deep breath and, although he didn't drop his gaze from his pilot's, he counted slowly to ten. Thinking outside the box and a healthy disrespect for authority was what made this team so good at what they did. He got to eight in his count before he said,

"I guess that explains the state it's in."

Murdock visibly relaxed and Face laughed out loud. B.A. joined him, and Hannibal shook his head and sat back down.

"Was the box hot anywhere?" he asked. "Did it make any odd noises when you shifted it?"

"Nope and nope."

"Well, Captain, I suppose there's a chance this box is full of anthrax, but if it was a bomb we'd probably have some indication of it by now," Hannibal concluded. "Go ahead and open it."

Murdock beamed and looked like he was going to rip into it with his teeth. B.A. caught his wrist and offered his pocketknife.

A quick zipping through the tape and a spray of packing peanuts later, Murdock cackled,

"Christmas presents!"

The rest of the team sat with expressions that said they thought Christmas presents were less likely than anthrax. Murdock ignored their surprise. He dug into the box, dumping more peanuts out onto the table, and pulled wrapped gift after wrapped gift out.

Static electricity made the Styrofoam cling to his arms and the gifts. He shook the boxes and wiped them to remove any tenacious peanuts before passing them to their recipients.

"Here, Facey, this one is yours—ooo, it's squishy! B.A., for you, and Hannibal. Careful, don't drop it!"

The final gift was for him, and then he removed the box from the table.

"You know you gotta clean all this mess up," B.A. told him.

"I know!" he replied happily.

Once he was seated again, Murdock looked around to his teammates. They were all sitting still, awkwardly, with their gifts nearby. Only Hannibal held his, and he looked thoughtful. Not thoughtful in a good way; thoughtful like he still expected the thing he held in his hand to contain scorpions or to blow up.

"Well?" Murdock prompted.

No one moved.

"Come on, guys—it's Christmas! Open them up and see what we got! Faceman—you go first."

Curious and not quite as suspicious as Hannibal, Face relented. His gift had give to it, like Murdock announced, so he carefully peeled back the paper. Inside was a small toiletry case. As he examined it, however, his jaw dropped.

"Holy . . . crap. This is . . ."

"Cosmetics? Women's stuff?" B.A. supplied drily.

"This is most definitely _not_ for women," Face replied seriously, not acknowledging the sarcasm from the black man. "This is _Alford & Hoff._"

As he threw his gaze around the table, the rest of them stared blankly at him.

"Really, guys? Alford & Hoff?" he asked in disbelief. "This is really good, really high end. _Luxury_ skin care."

"Women's stuff," B.A. repeated with a roll of his eyes.

"Ah, you're all Neanderthals," Face announced. He tried to say it harshly, like an insult, but they could hear the underlying laughter in his voice.

"Awesome. Bosco, you're next."

The black man, like Face, opened his gift semi-carefully. He extracted a book.

"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," Face read aloud, tipping his head to read the spine.

B.A. opened the cover to read the dust jacket flap.

"Look—it's signed," Face told him, pointing to the first page.

Hannibal continued to look thoughtful. "I think you'll like that, B.A." The big man looked up to his former CO. "It's memoir-ish of a father and son traveling across the country, and how spiritualism ties everything around us."

B.A. nodded slowly, and went back to reading the jacket.

Murdock let him have a moment, then said, "Me next!"

He wasn't cautious and didn't take the care the other two had when opening the gift he had at his plate. With a flurry of paper shreds, he discovered a small cardboard box and ripped it open too.

"Finger puppets!" he crowed, immediately shoving the small rubber monsters on all the fingers of his left hand, and the remaining three his right hand. He then used his used his monster tipped hands to extract another, flatter package. The cellophane it was wrapped in crinkled. Murdock examined it critically.

Once again, Face tried to read the package, but it was very obviously written in Japanese. "What is it, buddy? It looks like paper."

"It is paper," Murdock replied, almost distracted as he used his monster-free thumb to keep his place on the packaging while he read. In a moment, he looked back up with bright eyes. "This is origami paper. _Hand-dyed_ Yuzen Washi paper. And some Chiyogami paper too!"

The other three looked at him with the same expressions on their faces they had used earlier, when the toiletry case was presented.

Murdock smirked. "Neanderthals," he called them, in the same tone Face had used.

Laughter broke out around the table.

With obvious effort, Murdock put the package of paper down and turned to Hannibal. "Okay, Hannibal, you're up."

Hannibal turned his package over and over in his hands.

"Come on, Hannibal! I bet it's a cigar case."

With much more deliberate care than any of the others, he broke the tape along the seams of the paper. Meticulously he pulled the paper away from the book in his hands. "Harry Turtledove," he murmured, reading the author's name aloud.

"You read him before?" B.A. asked.

Hannibal shook his head. "No. But I always meant to. This is the first in his series about the South winning the Civil War." He cracked the spine open as B.A. had done, to the front flap of the dust jacket.

"Is yours signed too?" Face asked, as a packet fell out of the front of the book.

Hannibal caught it with much more dexterity then some men half his age, glanced at it, and in the same motion shoved it immediately into the middle of the book.

"What's that—" Face started. He cut himself off as he caught the swiftest glimpse of the first of what the thin packet contained. He had spotted a bit of lace and leg in the black and white photograph; he knew boudoir photos when he saw them.

"What is it, boss?" Murdock asked.

Hannibal didn't look at the pilot, but kept his eyes on Face.

"Looks like a bookmark," the conman replied for him smoothly.

Hannibal gave a nod, and turned his attention to Murdock. "It's a bookmark. And my book isn't signed like B.A.'s."

"Oh. Too bad. But it's pretty cool anyway, right?'

"Yes. It is."

The four team members sat quietly around the table for a moment. Murdock opened his origami papers and immediately started folding one in an intricate pattern. It was made more complex by the fact that he still refused to remove the finger puppets.

Hannibal set his book on the table, but Face noted he didn't take his hand from it. "Murdock," he said quietly, watching the pilot concentrate on his folds, "where did these gifts come from?"

"What? Out of the box," he chuckled, not looking up.

"Murdock . . . "

"I didn't buy all this, if that's what you're implying!" Murdock went on. "Do you think I could have faked the surprise of these remarkable little beasts if I knew I had already bought them?"

He waved the rubber monsters at Hannibal.

Hannibal persisted. "Murdock . . . how did Stella get our address?"

Face at least had an inkling of who was behind the gifts; who else would send Hannibal racy photos? _When_ Hannibal figured it out—was it before or after seeing the photos?—was a better question. Murdock was still too interested in his paper to be natural, so it was obvious he knew too. B.A. was the only one completely in the dark, and he looked stunned.

"I sent her a Christmas card," Murdock muttered, semi-guiltily.

"With the return address on it?" Face asked, in an incredulous tone.

Murdock shook his head. "Not on the outside!" After a moment of silent contemplation, he chanced a glance around the table.

Hannibal's free hand scratched his chin. The rest waited for his reaction.

"It's okay," he finally decided. "We have to be careful, but it's okay."

"Oh, thank god we didn't shoot the UPS guy!" Face barked with a laugh.

Murdock joined him, and the mood lightened again.

They joked for a little while more, till Murdock announced he needed them to get out so he could clean up the kitchen in time to mess it up again for dinner. The other three left him in peace and left the kitchen.


	6. Finale, with insights discovered

Picking up all the peanuts and discarded paper didn't take as long as he expected, so Murdock collected his puppets from their supervisory positions above the sink and wandered away from the kitchen himself. He heard the shower running, which meant Face was trying out his new skin care regiment. Hannibal was back in his recliner with his new book open. There was a flurry of activity while Murdock walked by, as Hannibal stuck his bookmark back into a further place in the novel again.

He couldn't find B.A.

Eventually, Murdock thought to go upstairs and check the bedroom. It was last on his list, because B.A. wasn't one to be idle, but it was the only place left in the townhouse he hadn't looked.

The black man was sitting on his bed, holding the book he'd received. It wasn't started, like Hannibal's. As a matter of fact, B.A. was staring out the window.

"Hey Bosco," Murdock said from the doorway. "Mind if I come in?"

Apparently he didn't, because he didn't order the pilot to mind his own fool business.

Murdock came in the room and flopped easily down beside him. "You okay, big guy?"

Finally B.A.'s gaze shifted to the man sprawled on the bed with him. "What?" he asked slowly.

"You okay? You got kinda . . . quashed down in the kitchen. You were surprised to get that book, and then you were a different surprised to find out it was from Stella."

Again, instead of letting his temper flare, B.A. scrutinized Murdock. The man was loony. They had the official papers to prove it, and he'd witnessed it firsthand. But there was this other part to him; a part that was uncannily astute and too observant for his own good. B.A. supposed that was God's way of keeping balance in the universe. Who knew what Murdock could do if he was in complete control of his facilities all the time?

Right at this moment, B.A. could see it was the on the ball, empathetic Murdock watching him closely.

It disarmed him.

"I was just thinkin' . . ." the black man answered quietly. "Thinkin' . . . about this book. How it's just right. Motorcycles and Buddhism—who would even think of those two things together?"

He paused, and Murdock didn't respond with a nonsensical comment, so after another moment, he continued.

"This is somethin' my mom would do," he said with an even quieter voice. "She always knew what was just right. And Hannibal's Stella, doing the same thing . . . is that somethin' women can do? Just read us like an open book, and make us feel like we're little kids?"

Murdock bit his lip. Verses of "I Am A Rock" flitted through his head, but he didn't think B.A. would appreciate a poignant solo right now.

In this second lack of response, B.A. sighed. Although Murdock didn't know it was possible, the black man's voice got even softer.

"I miss my mom, man. Getting this—" He picked the book up slightly from his lap and gripped it so tightly his knuckles turned white. "—from someone else just makes me miss her more."

Hearing the wistfulness in his voice struck Murdock as the same he'd heard in Face's the night he was drunk. So the tough as nails, Christmas-don't-mean-nothing exterior was just a front. Murdock immediately sat up and without an invitation, hugged him.

Instead of pushing him off and yelling to go hang all over Face like he always does, B.A. accepted the embrace.

"I know it'd be really difficult for you to go see your mom," Murdock whispered in the crook of his neck. "But—even though it wouldn't be the same—I bet you could maybe ask Stella to go visit. Anyone who may be keeping tabs on your mom isn't going to put two and two together if another woman visits."

B.A. didn't reply, but unpinned his arm from under Murdock, and half returned the hug.

He did whistle the Simon and Garfunkel tune once the brotherly bonding was finished and he was leaving the room, and was pleasantly surprised that B.A. didn't tell him to knock it off.

Holidays may suck, Murdock thought to himself, but if they're sucky then it doesn't take much to make them better.

_fin._


End file.
